


These Delicate Nights

by Dovahlock221



Series: dance me to the end of love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221
Summary: I find him in his armchair, hands covering his eyes, back shaking with the quiet echoes of his sobs. It's silent tonight.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: dance me to the end of love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877812
Comments: 58
Kudos: 217
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	These Delicate Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Такие хрупкие ночи](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330896) by [Everything_Is_Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everything_Is_Blue/pseuds/Everything_Is_Blue)



I find him in his armchair, hands covering his eyes, back shaking with the quiet echoes of his sobs. It’s silent tonight. As quiet as London can get with snow falling delicately in the streets. 

I didn’t hear him. A rush of guilt tries to bubble inside me. If I had heard him, the air wouldn’t be so silently loud, filled with his almost imperceptible sobs. I should be playing the violin, soothing him back into a restless sleep, but a sleep all the same. I wonder if he thought about coming to my room. If he couldn’t bear to be alone but also refused to ask for the company he so clearly needs. If he’d tried and lost the energy halfway.

His breath hitches and I can’t stand it any longer. I’m across the living room floor and kneeling in front of him in an instant. What I expect is for him to flinch, clear his throat, rise from his chair and mumble about making tea. What I do not expect is for him to catch the front of my shirt in a gentle fist and pull me towards him. Which is exactly what he does. 

The sudden movement leaves me shocked with my face pressed into his chest. 

Maybe it’s the quiet calm, quickly melting away my shock, bringing forth my need that I try so desperately to hide, but I cannot refuse him this. Wrapping my arms around his middle, I squeeze him just as tight. We stay still for a moment, his warm breath in my hair. I cannot help myself but bury my head further, breathing him in, committing the scent to memory and labeling it _home_.

“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying, barely loud enough to be a whisper. _Sorry for...not hearing you. Not being there when you needed me. Holding you close in your most vulnerable moments and hiding what this closeness is doing to me._

He laughs brokenly and I feel a spark in my chest. 

“The one time Sherlock Holmes apologizes for something and he’s done absolutely nothing wrong.” John is smiling. _I_ \- _my apology_ made him smile. The spark ignites. 

His breath catches on a hoarse inhale and in the faint light, I can see a flush rising on his cheeks. He’s embarrassed, raising an arm to wipe away the remnants of his tears. The loss of contact sends a shiver down my spine. 

John leans back in his chair trying hard to control his breathing. I have to fight the urge to ask him specifics. These days, it could be any number of things.

“You were- uh...Sorry.” ... _So it was about me._ He clears his throat. Tries again. “Sorry I grabbed you like that. I just...” 

He’s ridiculous. The most ridiculous man to think he needs to apologize for needing me as much as I need him. We could go back and forth, stumbling over our embarrassed words and defending each other’s actions. It’s pointless and something about this night is too fragile for such unnecessary things. We are tired. Tired of hiding behind stumbled words and embarrassed apologies. So I do the same thing he did. It’s awkward at first, reaching for his hands and pulling him down. He ends up in my lap, both of us giggling with slightly confused expressions. It’s awkward and then it isn’t. 

There is a moment of rearranging limbs though he stays in my lap, both our arms wrapped tightly around one another, our foreheads pushed together subsequently breathing each other in. It’s exquisite, to have him so close, finally breathing hard for a different reason other than fear and loss and heartbreak. 

I think we move at the same time, but then suddenly there isn’t any more time to think because within a second everything is _warmth_. Warms lips and breath coming together after years of never meeting. And then there’s the gentle press of a tongue against my own. It lasts forever. It lasts not nearly long enough. I’ve barely begun my exploration, trying to memorize all the details of him, before he is pulling away.

“I-” 

“Stop apologizing,” my words come in a breathless whisper. I want to press them into his mouth, but he’s gently pushing me back with a hand on my chest, smiling. The most radiant and true smile I’ve seen on his face in so long. 

“I wasn’t going to, you git,” he laughs, shoving me playfully and then pulling me back to kiss the corner of my mouth. “I was going to say thank you.”

 _Please something different_ , I want to tell him, _because I don’t know what that means._ _What exactly are you thanking me for?_ Say something to tell me you want this as much as I do. I can feel it or at least I think I can. I just need to hear you say it out loud. Say that yes, maybe this intimacy made you feel better tonight, but you want more. That this will go on _after_ this moment. Outside of the safety of this night. I could stay in this forever, I realize. His arms, our flat with our mouths brushing against one another’s- 

“I want this,” I blurt out the words, staring at his chest. I can’t stop myself now. The words I’ve kept hidden for so long rush out of me and I don’t want to stop. Every word that’s been teetering on the edge of an unsteady cliff, I _need_ to say it. “I’ve wanted this for-...for so long. You don’t realize, John. You don’t know how long-“ 

“I do. Jesus, Sherlock-“ he rubs a weary hand over his face and I can’t help but grasp it and bring to my mouth. He laughs quietly. “I can’t focus if you keep on doing things like that.”

I smile back, daring to glance at him with a mischievous glint in my eyes. He drags light fingertips across my lips to rest his palm against my cheek and I sigh, nuzzling into the contact.

“This is important, love.” The sentiment sobers me and I feel a push and pull between my head and my heart. He cannot possibly mean that. It was a slip of the tongue, something he’ll wake up and regret tomorrow. An endearment that was never, could never be meant for me from this impossibly beautiful man. This man I’ve put through so much and he’s still here and I- “I just need you to know that...me too. I’ve wanted this too.” 

_Oh._

_Oh, John._

* * *

Everything feels new. Brighter in a way that both of us seem to be cherishing. Soaking up every second of the new-not so newness. Last night we’d stumbled down the hallway, hands, and mouths trying desperately to stay joined. Being in bed with John Watson was something I’d always dreamed of, imagined for years knowing that it would never be a reality. Though it was not how I’d always imagined; it was so much better than that. Quiet declarations filled with emotions; John whispering words against my skin, _‘in wildest dreams, I could have never imagined tonight would end like this_ ’, gentle questions of _‘is this ok?’_ and desperate pleas for more more _more_ because _yes, everything about this is more than ok._ Rough kisses filled with years and years of built up desire finally being released. And then, just holding onto each other, falling into a restful sleep with our hearts beating against one another’s. 

In the morning, there’d been sleepy smiles and soft kisses. We’d stayed in bed for hours, exploring each other’s skin until John's stomach demanded food. 

Domesticity has never been the same since John Watson limped into my life. The joy of simply being in each other’s company stripping away the dullness from day to day life. Now, it’s brilliant. It is wrapping arms around one another while one cooks and the other makes tea. It is smiling through large bites of food that puts a swell of pride on John's face. It’s picking bits from his plate as I’ve done for years, but now that seems to matter more; it’s intimate, a facet of our love, known to both of us. 

As day fades into night and snow falls from the sky, John sits in his armchair watching me play the violin. 

I play as I feel his arms wrap around me and his body sways with mine. I play as he buries his face into my back and exhales and inhales calm breath and I can feel him smiling against my skin. I play the last notes, place my violin down, turn to gather him in my arms and dance in the delicate silence.


End file.
